


Faking Him

by twistedmiracle



Series: Breaking Him [3]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to my fic "Waking Up With Liggy" which is a sequel to my fic "Breaking Him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faking Him

Tilford tried to give Malfoy a decent amount of time for a complete convalescence, but it was hard to resist the Galleons. There were a lot of people who wanted to pay to fuck (humiliate, castigate, hurt) a Malfoy, after all. And he had one sentenced to serve in his brothel, fresh from Harry Potter's bed. (Cachet doubled, just like that.)

On the other hand, it was obvious that the man was a wreck who could not be trusted to satisfy a client. So Tilford thought to give him a couple of months off. (Not that he promised Malfoy anything out loud, of course.) When three days of eager requests piled up on his desk, he decided to give Malfoy a month. Then after another day of requests arrived steadily by Owl (and sometimes in person), Tilford decided a fortnight would surely be enough.

But when the first client to actually buy a night with Malfoy stormed into the escort service office in a fury, Tilford realized his greed had gotten the better of him.

Malfoy couldn't get an erection. Malfoy wouldn't look the client in the eye. Malfoy, apparently, couldn't even speak a few words. Tilford refunded the entire night's cost and gave the woman six free hours of Yaxley's time to boot.

Stinging, Tilford let Malfoy loaf for over a month before trying again, this time more cautiously. But all he got for his trouble was a client who wasn't angry - merely disappointed.

Tilford called Malfoy into his office the next day, and the handler brought him in. The man who had come out of Azkaban arrogant enough to attempt wandless Legilimency on Harry Potter himself had become a silent man who sat staring at the floor.

Tilford tried kind words; he tried soothingly patting Malfoy's hand; he tried tea. Nothing helped. Malfoy was a nearly catatonic lump. He couldn't even give Tilford a half decent blow job. What a waste of space, food and money.

At least Malfoy didn't eat very much. Also, he was bunking with Parkinson, who'd had a private room until she'd angrily insisted that Malfoy be allowed to share it. An employee had spelled the bed and sheets a bit bigger and cast surreptitious spells to alert Tilford should anything sexual occur in it.

(Nothing had.)

Tilford decided to give Malfoy a clearly stated limit. He called both Parkinson and Malfoy into his office and explained (as gently as he could), that he wasn't running some sort of boarding house or dormitory. Malfoy had a deadline now, and if he didn't start bringing in at least _some_ income in the next eight weeks, he'd be transferred to a different sort of rehabilitation program.

Tilford had heard tell of a hippogriff breeder that needed more hands to muck out stalls, for example. Malfoy might prefer fifteen years on his back (or knees) to spending the rest of his sentence shoveling manure.

Nearly six weeks passed. Malfoy's performance did not improve, and as word got around, fewer and fewer people wanted to take him for the night. Almost no one, as it turned out, wanted a nearly _Stupefied_ whore. Not a male one, anyway.

 

*

 

And then Madam Bolyen walked into his office. A domineering, haughty matron in her eighties, she had a proposition for Tilford that (in hindsight), he should have worked much harder to resist.

"The anniversary of the end of the second war approaches, Mr. Tilford, and I wish to celebrate in high style. I will hire a large number of your prostitutes to service my guests. But that isn't the primary attraction of my party, Mr. Tilford. Oh, no! I have a spectacular bacchanal planned. Harry Potter will rape the Dark Lord at my party, and you will help me stage it."

As it turned out, hers was the sort of party Tilford quite enjoyed helping plan. Escorts would act the parts of the Dark Lord and Harry Potter. Madam Bolyen had already written the script and those two would have lines to memorize. As "Harry Potter" subdued and violated "the Dark Lord" in the middle of the Bolyen ballroom, other whores dressed as the Death Eaters they had once been would enter the audience, who would be seated in a ring around the main spectacle, and begin orally pleasuring the Bolyen guests.

When "the Dark Lord" had been completely conquered and "Harry Potter" declared himself victorious and spent, the Bolyen guests would take their respective whores upstairs to guest bedrooms, and Madam Bolyen and her husband would retire upstairs with both the primary actors.

There was nothing particularly difficult about this and, of course, it would be extremely lucrative for Tilford. Bolyen wanted nearly his entire stable. But then Bolyen insisted upon having Draco Malfoy play the part of the Dark Lord in her little play.

And she calmly accepted Tilford's suggestion of Warrington for Potter, but she wanted him… Polyjuiced.

Tilford resisted; he really did. There were laws against this sort of thing, after all, though the penalties were minor and the cases were usually dismissed with a fine, if anything. But if the secret got out, Harry Potter (one of his best customers!) might not be pleased. Of course, he might instead think it all great fun, but Tilford could hardly ask him beforehand!

But Madam Bolyen was utterly determined, and she wore Tilford down. Malfoy was barely conscious most of the time? She didn't care. There was no better choice for Voldemort than the last Malfoy. Warrington already looked rather like Potter? Perhaps he did, but not enough. The real Harry Potter was far sexier. People might find out? Her guests would be under magical binding not to reveal the secret. And she was hardly going to tell them, after all. If they asked? She and Tilford could claim it was a Glamour. Why not use a Glamour for real? Everyone knows they often flicker at the most inconvenient moments. Why Polyjuice one and not the other? Was he crazy? No one wanted to look at Voldemort!

Bolyen had an answer for everything. An answer that included more Galleons. (And Tilford did love his Galleons.)

And it would be so pathetically easy to get a bit of Mr. Potter for the Polyjuice. He hadn't even bothered to mention that to Madam Bolyen as an objection. For Potter had come to expect Tilford to give him free blowjobs a few times a year, and he accepted them with such grace, like the hero he was.

Tilford knew better than anyone that Potter didn't need Tilford's mouth to have a warm, wet place in which to come.

Tilford knew better than anyone that he sucked Potter's cock purely for the pleasure of having _that cock_, belonging to _that man_, in his own (unworthy, cowardly) little mouth.

Tilford himself had lost nothing but illusions (about himself) in the war. He was only ten years older than Mr. Potter himself. He could have fought, risked, stood up for his family and beliefs. Instead he'd hidden in terror, watched every word that came out of his mouth so that no one would know where his loyalties truly lay, and now he was a war profiteer, selling the sexual services of convicted Death Eaters.

But at least he could suck Mr. Harry Potter's cock occasionally, and (as long as he made sure Potter never had to see, or think about, Draco Malfoy again) sell Potter all the sexual service he might choose to buy. It was a living.

So approximately three weeks before the Bolyen's anniversary gala, Tilford again found himself on his knees in front of Mr. Potter, sucking his cock, stroking his balls, and this time surreptitiously pocketing several long black pubic hairs that had come loose in his fingers. He hadn't even needed to pull.

 

**

 

The night of the party arrived, and when Tilford saw how smoothly everything was going he wondered why he'd been nervous. Fifteen of his seventeen whores were there, so he stayed to supervise, along with two handlers. The other two whores (thankfully including Parkinson who was far too deep into Potter's pocket) were out on longer contracts, so the escort service was emptied for the night. The rest of his employees had the night off, and were probably getting roaring drunk, like most of the wizarding world.

Tilford wasn't exactly an invited guest, so he could only guess how the actual party was going, but under his purview, all was going swimmingly. All the costumes looked perfect, both Warrington and Malfoy (thanks to Parkinson and a handler taking most of a day to make it happen) had their few lines memorized (though Malfoy sounded half-dead when he whispered them); all his hands were well-behaved, two guests had already availed themselves of the free sexual buffet; and Tilford had actually gotten a tip because some old geezer had managed to come all over Jugson's enormous tits.

After an hour or so, Bolyen cleared out the ballroom to serve her guests a light meal, and Tilford got the "play" set up. The set was quite minimal. A "throne" for Malfoy that easily converted to a bench for him to fall over so Warrington could more easily (and visibly) fuck him. Mock Death Eater masks and robes for all the hands to wear. (Except Warrington of course, who wore Muggle jeans and a black long-sleeved t-shirt.) Screens for the rest of the escorts to hide behind. A fake door for "Harry Potter" to burst through and confront "You-Know-Who."

Tilford watched Warrington pull the Polyjuice out of his robes and nodded at him. It was no longer too early for him to take it. Warrington grimaced as he brought the brew up to his lips. It didn't surprise Tilford that Warrington already knew the stuff tasted appalling. Tilford had carefully read the files on all of his hands. He knew everything they had been convicted of. Impersonation by Polyjuice was the least of it.

While Warrington changed painfully into the perfect likeness of Potter, Tilford got everyone in place. He settled in to watch as the lights dimmed and the Bolyen's guests entered, their excited murmurs carrying through the room. When everyone was seated, the room lights went off completely and a spotlight opened up on the door Warrington was standing behind. Malfoy was slumped over in his throne, but Tilford thought the room was dark enough that no one else was aware of that.

Following Bolyen's script perfectly, Warrington burst through the door, wand alight. It was actually a trick wand from that Weasley joke shop, but no one other than Warrington needed to know that.

"I've come to kill you, Voldemort!" Warrington yelled. Several guests flinched (even now, eleven years later) at the Dark Lord's moniker. "You're already dead!" Warrington continued, and all Tilford could think was that Bolyen's script was appalling.

Malfoy in return was supposed to sneer that "Potter" was a little boy and no one would ever vanquish the Dark Lord, but that wasn't what happened. As Tilford watched in horror, Draco Malfoy half-rose from his little throne and then stumbled to his knees in front of it. "Harry?" he queried in a ragged voice. "Is that you?"

Warrington strove to make the best of Malfoy's detour from the script. "It is me, foul cur, and you'll not forget who I am again." Warrington spoke his somewhat improvised lines in a commanding voice, and Tilford decided that the man was soon getting a night off as a reward.

Malfoy crumpled, dropping his toy wand and debasing himself so utterly that even Warrington was taken aback.

"Please Harry, please…" Malfoy sobbed into the floor. "I've waited so long for you. I need you."

"You need to die!" Warrington tried, attempting to bring them back to their prepared lines. "But first, I plan to show you who the real wizard is!"

Malfoy didn't seem to have heard a word Warrington had said. "Harry, please, fuck me again, make me your whore again. I need you Harry, please, take me. I beg you, I'm begging!" Malfoy was sobbing so loudly now that his words were hard to understand, but no one could mistake the way he lay face down on the ballroom floor, his legs wide open, his hands behind his knees, his arse up in the air and ready for Warrington's cock the moment his robes were out of the way.

"You want me to fuck you?" Warrington managed to sound commanding still, despite the bizarre turn the play had taken.

"Yes, yes! More than anything, please, any way you want, do you want me on my back? On my knees? Anything, Harry, hurt me, tear me, just please, be inside me again. Make me your whore!"

Tilford tore his eyes from the deliciously exciting spectacle Malfoy was making of himself. Even though the prostitutes had yet to kneel to suck their cocks and clits, every guest seemed to have their hand (or hands) stuffed into their robes and stroking eagerly. No one had expected the fake You-Know-Who to react this way, but they all loved it. Madam Bolyen had begun to seethe visibly when Malfoy had abandoned her plan, but now she was beside herself with the flush of success.

Noting the reactions of Bolyen's guests, Tilford motioned to his hands to take their places immediately, even though it was (probably, it was hard to tell since the script had been abandoned) earlier than the original plan called for.

As the other escorts emerged from behind their screens, Warrington stalked over to Malfoy, pushed him onto his back and yanked his robes up and away. When he saw what they had been hiding, he gasped. Everyone at Tilford's knew Malfoy hadn't been able to get it up for ages. But the erection they all saw on Malfoy now was magnificent.

Tilford felt his own cock swell, despite himself. That hard-on might not be for him, or even for Warrington, but it was pleasant enough to pretend otherwise. Tilford found himself experiencing a most unusual bout of sexual envy. No one had tried to fuck Malfoy's arse in several months. He ought to feel as tight as a virgin.

Warrington waved his still bright wand imperiously at Malfoy and ordered him to kneel in front of the throne. Then he pulled Harry Potter's beautiful cock out of his costume and opened a small packet of lube. Soon he was reaming Malfoy thoroughly, and Malfoy was sobbing and whining as he pushed himself back onto Warrington's borrowed body over and over again.

Tilford watched Warrington's face and vowed to have Malfoy impaled on his own cock as soon as he could manage it.

 

***

 

As planned, the Bolyens took Warrington and Malfoy up to the master bedroom and kept them all night. The other thirteen hands were contracted for the guests, and most stayed at the Bolyen's home until two or three in the morning, at least. Some clients did not like sleeping next to a escort, whereas some liked to treat themselves to a morning fuck or suck. After years in the business, Tilford prided himself on understanding the variety in his many clients' needs.

Nonetheless, he was extremely nervous. He had confidence in the skills of his other hands, but would the Bolyens be satisfied with Malfoy's performance? Would he be forced to issue yet another refund? He arrived at work early and took reports from every escort that had serviced the Bolyen guests. But until he spoke to Warrington, he learned nothing of use.

Thankfully, Warrington's report was gratifying. First of all, the Polyjuice had worn off not long after they had arrived in the master bedroom, but neither Bolyen expressed disappointment. This relieved Tilford greatly.

As for Malfoy, his ability to get and maintain an erection had lasted quite satisfactorily through all of the Bolyen's requirements. He had submitted to a fuck from Mr. Bolyen, had later lain on his back complacently while Madam Bolyen had climbed on and ridden his still erect cock to orgasm, and had next obediently gotten on his knees on the floor and pantomimed giving Warrington a blowjob. He had then turned around and let Warrington fuck him again, and spew come all over his back at the Bolyens request.

He'd slept quietly (no nightmares) through the night on a little camp bed they had provided. In the morning he'd sucked Mr. Bolyen to orgasm while Warrington had eaten Madam Bolyen's pussy, shared a light breakfast in the kitchen with the few remaining hands, and Flooed back to the brothel on his own two feet. Then he'd actually politely nodded goodbye to Warrington before returning to the room he shared with Parkinson.

Tilford dismissed Warrington with his thanks and a promise of Friday night off. Warrington definitely deserved a reward for both his quick thinking and excellent reporting. But Warrington aside, Tilford now had some serious thinking to do about Draco Malfoy. More to the point, about Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Tilford was far too savvy to allow Mr. Potter any reminders of Malfoy's existence (Parkinson's annoying determination to share her bed and bedroom notwithstanding.) But it seemed that the reverse was not only not true, but an enormous miscalculation on his part. Demeter only knew what the hell Potter had done to Malfoy's mind and soul, but Malfoy (clearly) functioned better if he thought he had recently had sexual contact with Potter. Opening his safe, Tilford carefully measured the remaining hair he'd secreted away, and began to do research on the smallest possible amount of genetic material one could add for an effective dose of Polyjuice.

 

****

 

Most of the Bolyen's guests came through in the next week to buy time with the whores that had serviced the party. Some wanted another night with "their" escort; more wanted to try out an attractive man or woman that someone else at the party had gotten the chance to take upstairs. But even more wanted Malfoy. Tilford sold seven one-night contracts on him in a day, and sat through the next week nervously awaiting negative reports. None came. Malfoy was subdued but polite, and he did as the clients requested. There were no issues with either his erection or his demeanor.

This lasted a full fortnight.

Then over the course of about three days (thankfully giving Tilford enough advance warning to avoid selling Malfoy's time when he would be certain to disappoint) Malfoy slowly slipped back into his previous state.

It was very easy to slip a bit of one of those pilfered hairs into Polyjuice and call Malfoy into his office for a "chat."

And thus Malfoy's second life as a whore began. Every sixteen days, like clockwork, "Harry Potter" would be waiting for him in Tilford's office, alone. "Mr. Potter" would fuck him quite thoroughly, offering nothing more than a few softly spoken commands: "lean over the desk," "get on your knees now," "spread your arse open for me."

"Mr. Potter" would come (shuddering, deep) into Malfoy's arse, clean them both off, and silently dismiss him.

This went on for several months.

Tilford couldn't tell if Malfoy knew what was going on or not. He did know, however, that it wouldn't be long before he needed more of Potter's hair. Now that he was usually reasonably alert, Malfoy had once again become his most lucrative hand.

 

*****

 

It didn't end quite the way Tilford had hoped, however.

One day, about a week after the last time Tilford had enjoyed fucking Malfoy's tight and pretty arse, Harry Potter arrived in his Floo, unannounced, wand in hand and eyes ablaze. Tilford knew right away that he wasn't fixing this with fellatio.

"I know."

"Mr. Potter?"

"Don't shit me, William. I know, and it's over. I'm taking him. No, scratch that, I'm taking both of them."

"Mr. Potter, I…" Tilford trailed off. He wondered whom the other half of "both of them" might be, but did not have the courage to ask.

Potter crossed his arms over his chest and gave Tilford a glare that nearly singed his eyebrows. Despite himself, Tilford felt his cock warm and begin to fill under his robes. He cursed his (inevitable) reaction to Potter, as he was already fairly sure that he would never suck the man's cock again.

"You stole from me, William. Worse, you have sullied my reputation and insulted my persona and dignity. I have come to collect the penalty I choose to impose. You will not object, or go to the press, or interfere."

Embarrassed, frightened, Tilford heard himself make a tiny noise. Potter stepped commandingly to the edge of the desk and gave Tilford a look of intense disgust. "Nor will you whine. Have a handler fetch Malfoy and Parkinson, and everything they own. They are both coming to live with me. You do not have control of their rehabilitation from this moment forward."

Tilford couldn't stop the words from tumbling out. "Malfoy and Parkinson? But those two are my best sellers! You, you can't! No one would, the law wouldn't, it's such a little crime!"

Potter leaned over the large desk (wand still clasped firmly in his right hand) and put his furious, calm face right into Tilford's personal space. "Is that what you told yourself? You pathetic little bastard. I can just hear the wheels you turned over in your head, William. 'Hair theft for Polyjuice impersonation at a private party is such a small crime, and the worst you would suffer, were you even discovered, would be a fine?' You forgot something, William. Something crucial escaped your notice. _You turned Harry Potter into a whore._"

Tilford shuddered in horror. Indeed, he hadn't quite seen that angle before (perhaps due to his line of work), but if it was presented _that_ way in court, it was (at least several months in) Azkaban for him. And his rehabilitation license would be taken, forever, without question.

If Potter took his two best escorts, well, he was only going to have been able to keep Parkinson for another three and a half years at the most. He swallowed his bile. He had brought this upon himself.

Nonetheless, his curiosity wouldn't let him surrender without a bit more information. Once a Ravenclaw…. "Why Miss Parkinson, Mr. Potter?" he asked, hoping not to be slapped for impudence.

Potter's eyes were angry, his posture erect. He looked every inch the famous war hero and Tilford's already hard cock began to ache. "I won't allow you to punish her for telling me what you were doing."

Sensing a possible loophole, Tilford tried not to whine as he spoke. "You'll reward her by springing her from jail early? That isn't like you, sir. I thought you wanted the Death Eaters punished."

Potter almost looked thoughtful. He stared at the wall for a heartbeat before turning and answering Tilford. "Not that it is any of your business, but she'll continue to service many cocks. Her charms will not go to waste and she will serve the entirety of her rehabilitation sentence. She will simply do so under _my_ control, not yours. Now fetch my whores."

Tilford called for a handler.

He did not watch Malfoy and Parkinson pack, or enter his office, or Floo away with Potter.

That night Tilford went home to his cozy, empty home and got thoroughly drunk. And then, life as a whore-monger went on, much as it had before Malfoy (or Parkinson, anyway) had been released from Azkaban.

Tilford was pretty sure he would miss giving Potter those blow jobs almost as much as he would miss the income.


End file.
